The Art of Fishing
by Quillslinger
Summary: In which I once again pull that trick with Shisui and older men and bars. KisaShi, with sides of ItaShi and KisaIta.


It seems I haven't been posting any of my fics on FFN of late. This one is actually kind of old, but I want to put it up because of a) how absurdly bad it is, and b) the fact that I'm pretty sure **no one **as ever written this pairing before :D

Also: porn. Thou hast been warned.

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**The Art of Fishing**

...

It was a night of many firsts for Kisame. He had, for example, never spent four hours plus on a single fight where more than a dozen opponents weren't involved. He had never walked away from such a fight staggering on his feet, clutching a hellish wound in his side that yearned to send all his vital organs plummeting to the ground. He had _also_ never faced an Uchiha in battle—but since he regularly rubbed shoulders with the prototype, it wasn't a difficult guess.

The kid had started shadowing Kisame since the last town, marking him all the way into the forest. Since last he'd checked there was a million-ryou price on his head, this development didn't come as a terrible surprise. Thank his ancestors for Samehada, 'cause after this night, he was never going to look at the motherfucking Shunshin the same way again.

Speedsters had the stamina, but weren't much for pain endurance—a couple good hits and they were down for the count. In Nameless Baby Uchiha's case, it was a series of flawless shredders that had nearly stripped the skin right off his back, guaranteeing a long and painful recovery. Assuming he didn't bleed to death right there on the forest floor. Kisame briefly debated putting him out of his misery, but decided against it—another first for him.

It was rare to bag a minnow that had a bite in it. Let the small ones go, and maybe someday a real prize catch would wander back into your net.

What he _hadn't_ expected was for that minnow to turn up three days later, sliding into the seat next to Kisame's at the bar. Underneath the swathes of bandages, the boy's skin was clammy and bloodless; he was moving in slow, pained jerks, but his eyes were sharp and clear, two hard coals in the piss-yellow light of the roadhouse. Surreptitiously, Kisame's wound gave an anxious throb.

"I'm not a ghost, if that's what you're thinking," said the kid, cocking his head wryly. "I'm not here to fight either."

"Am I gonna get a name or should we just go with Suicidal Uchiha Number Five?" Kisame said after a surreal moment, wondering if Madara-sama would get a kick out of learning what his wide-eyed descendants were getting up to these days.

"Shisui," said the boy, chin raised in challenge. "I could have beaten you."

Kisame chuckled into his drink. "That's what they all say." Discounting the fact that most people who had earned that privilege would be long dead before they could cash in on it.

"I could," Shisui insisted. "You think swords and fists are the only ways to fight? I could have made you chop yourself in half with your own sword if I'd wanted to."

Kisame thought about Yagura for a moment, conceding that this was likely true. "Why didn't ya then?"

"Too boring," Shisui said, mouth suddenly hot and breathy at Kisame's neck, and damn if that wasn't another first.

Kisame leaned back a little, tilting his head in question. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Bullshit. You look about twelve, tops." Not old enough to be cruising bars and hitting on S-class killers, that was for certain.

"Fourteen," Shisui said, reddening slightly but still utterly brazen. "Is that an issue for you?"

"If I say no, what're you going to make of it?"

"Got a room?"

"No."

"Get one," Shisui said. "You'll be paying for it, of course."

"Sure," Kisame said, because fuck, this shit was worth the money. Shisui was shameless and obviously deranged but Kisame was hard already, just as he'd been the other night, walking away from their fight. Blood and youthful recklessness brought out that side of him.

He picked the shittiest room possible just to be a dick, and left Samehada propped next to the bed and within easy reach. The kid looked about half-dead on his feet, eyes glazed over with pitifully genuine lust, but it never hurt to be too careful.

Shisui turned his head aside when Kisame went for his lips. "I don't kiss."

"Got a boyfriend at home?" Kisame asked.

"No," Shisui said, but there was something brittle and snappish in his tone that rang like a fucking alarm. "Or maybe he's not your boyfriend _yet_," Kisame ventured, and smirked when he saw the clean line of Shisui's neck go taut with tension.

Kisame lifted an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn't have pegged you for the pining type." Maybe he should charitably fuck this shiny-eyed romantic horseshit out of the poor kid.

Then he was shoving Shisui down on the bed and covering his body flush, going straight for that white, inviting throat, mean and brutal, shredding soft skin and filling his mouth with the taste of young blood. Shisui, the little shit, retaliated by slamming his knee into Kisame's side—the _injured_ side. He slid his hand up Shisui's shirt and stroked his thumb over one nipple, dragging out of those full, untouchable lips a series of small, shuddering noises.

Shisui arched and bucked, knee sliding between Kisame's legs, rubbing up against the bulge in his pants. The imperfect friction was driving him crazy.

Not much worth focusing on next, just a blur of yanked-off clothes and hissing breaths, and then he was pushing Shisui's face-down into the pillow, thrusting two wet fingers inside him while licking his palm to slick himself up. This was going to be a rough one, but then, Shisui had chased after a man who had sliced him up like an onion: he was _clearly_ into pain.

Kisame licked his suddenly-dry lips, surveying the shivering body under him, all slender and lithe and built-for-speed. Relatively scandalous age difference notwithstanding, this was one for the book. A bit too green, _definitely_ too mouthy, but aside from that, this crazy kid was actually his type—quick-eyed, sarcastic, all that smooth, pale skin. He wrapped his hands over the sharp bones of Shisui's hips, bracing for a moment before sinking in balls-deep. Shisui gagged and twisted his fingers into the bed sheet, muscles clenching sweet and tight around Kisame's cock. Tiny whimpers of pain—boys who _pined_ typically had also never been fucked.

"You're not gonna break in half or something, right?"

"Not – funny – _fucker_," Shisui snarled. "_Get on with it._"

"I always love the bossy ones," Kisame said, laughing softly.

He rolled his hips back slowly before thrusting in full-force, choking back a long groan. Shisui gasped and coughed a bit of blood onto the pillow. His bandages had come loose, leaving the gaping wounds to bleed freely. The bed was starting to resemble a crime scene, which Kisame found incredibly arousing. He reached around to take Shisui in his hand, feeling the boy's cock slide fluidly within his grip, hot and throbbing and needy.

Shisui moaned loudly, bucking into the touch, hips snapping in a way that had Kisame growling into the back of his neck. He grabbed a fistful of curls and dragged Shisui's head back, sinking his teeth into boyish neck, jerking Shisui's cock faster and faster, thumbing the leaking tip.

"You always get this wet?" he muttered behind Shisui's ear. "He ever makes you this wet? Gonna show him what a little slut you are?"

In response, Shisui gritted his teeth and rocked his hips furiously, once, twice, before coming all over Kisame's hand, a strangled yell muffled in the pillow. Kisame dragged Shisui toward him, still thrusting, rhythm frantic and uneven. Three quick strokes, and the muscles in his thighs were jerking tightly, his body going rock-stiff, hurtling over the edge, bursting out of his skin—then sweet, dark silence.

Shisui pulled himself out and rolled over on his back, breaths coming out in harsh bursts. He was a total mess, hair plastered to forehead, lip bitten raw. Kisame tilted his chin up and licked a rough stripe up Shisui's neck, taste of sweat stinging on his tongue, to hell with kisses. Smelling nothing but blood and spunk, maybe a hint of something rich and smoky underneath.

He left one last ring of teeth on Shisui's right shoulder—a parting signature—before pushing himself up and groping for his clothes. "You're leaving?" Shisui said, blinking dazedly.

Kisame smirked. "Why? You wanna cuddle?"

Shisui gave him the finger, and rolled back over, wincing a little as the sheets rubbed against his torn flesh. Kisame considered pointing out that Shisui should probably redress his wounds unless he wanted to contract tetanus, but what he actually said was, "Show your sweetheart some of these moves, and you'll have his haughty ass in no time."

Shisui snorted into the pillow. "Unsolicited advice much?"

Kisame laughed, almost in spite of himself. He slung his sword over his shoulder and headed for the door, pausing for a moment at the threshold. "Been a slice, eh?"

"I'm still going to take your head one of these days," Shisui said. The sharp glint under his half-lidded eyes made Kisame's cock give a hopeful twitch, made him wonder if it might be worth the risk to delay his departure by an hour or two.

"Sure," Kisame said as the door closed behind him. "Look me up in a few years. We'll do lunch, fuck, then fight to the death."

Years later, his stomach would twist at the memory of this half-promise as he coaxed Shisui's name out of Itachi's gasping mouth.

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Who needs plot, when you have gratuitous use of the word 'fuck'?


End file.
